la ville de grenouille

i've left my home in France for Willimantic, CT, aka Frog City...

So far I've been somewhat successful in my attempts to keep life entertaining. For instance, today I crossed the Willimantic Footbridge, which is in fact the only footbridge in the United States which connects two state highways and three different forms of transportation. 

I've had to make many trade-offs: instead of strolling along the Seine, dating Frenchman, and eating cheese in parks, I've grown accustomed to a new way of living...that is, strolling around the Uconn campus, zero dating, and eating bar food in bars.

So today, day 27 of fruitless job searching, I rode my bike, Shelly, down Main St. and put up these adorable signs offering French lessons. Although Willimantic does have a large population of drunken Easterners and crackheads, one can also find a plethora of art and music supply stores, a skateboard shop, a Spanish bakery, a micro-brewery, a cafe and even a head shop. I figured that the majority of those with an interest in the French language would be more of an "artisty-type". This reasoning is how I found myself today, standing in the middle of a guitar shop, being hugged by a middle-aged man.

After this strange man hugged me, I realized something. Americans are not prude, a platitude that I have supported for too long. Prude is not the right word to describe the horny college students and the creepy barflies. What I should have been saying, to explain this immense cultural difference in dating rules and regulations, is that Americans are crude. It's an easy mistake to make.

Picture me, minding my own business, trying to make it through my next couple of months of being a part-time, broke college student and some creepy middle-aged American, pot-belly, stupid baseball hat, stubby fingers, trying to lay on the charm.

Ugh.

Let me get to the point. So I'm standing in the middle of this guitar shop and I'm being hugged by a short, balding, middle-aged man who has just tried to say something in French, "je parle pas francais" or something of the sort. Then he cracks a joke about the irony of the phrase. And then, he moves in for the kill and HUGS me. 

You have no right to put your hands on me, Mr. Guitar Shop Owner. You are tactless and I deem you the pervert of the day. You are a crude man. 

Two days ago, while sitting alone at a bar, a man (who looked eerily similar to Mr. Guitar Shop Owner) sat down next to me and started up a midly interesting conversation. I half-ignored him. After about a half an hour, he invited me over to his place to listen to his Grateful Dead collection on his new stereo system. 

He also reassured me by telling me that he was not a creep.

This is also crude. Lacking in intellectual or judemental perspective. Are these just products of the watered-down American education system? Or sex-starved husbands? I need answers. And some redneck repellent.

until next time.

-july

How to pretend you are French and get discounts

It has been one full week since I have been back in Connecticut and

IT FEELS LIKE A FUCKING ETERNITY.

I've been wasting lots of time refusing to reintegrate, doing crosswords (and failing miserably), being the only person who smokes on campus, dropping classes, etc. etc.

For me, the most salient reason for my lack of integration is the fact that I have a couple of new personality traits, or rather, slightly altered antics. I noticed this not only when spending time with my friends and family, but even more intensely while at school. I think that a mixture of 9th semester senioritis and a silly desire to be French has turned me into a monster. My courses this semester are a bit of a joke, especially after I found out that my trip back to America was entirely unnecessary.

SPAN 101

This is my best class. After spending a small fortune on the textbook and bearing through a few awkward first meetings I've deemed this bunch of clowns as amusing. The second day of class I made a friends, and what more, my roommate jumped on me while exclaiming, "WE HAVE A CLASS TOGETHER ROOMIE!" The teacher is extremely enthusiastic and speaks to us as if we were 4th graders, which I don't mind one bit. 

Creative Writing

Has taught me, once more again, the benefits of eliminating the word "like" from your vocabulary. The girl next to me said "like" more than Samuel L. Jackson says "fuck". I could not understand what she was saying. 

We have to write poetry for this class. The teacher is a sad, balding 50-something year old who tells us that his wife hates him and leads a "discussion" for 1h15 minutes. I have not yet dropped this course because of the gorgeous Spanish exchange student who occasionally gives me googly-eyes from across the room. Hola, Diego.

2 courses in French

These courses are cool, the professor is intelligent and the kids are not so bad. Except for yesterday when toes were stepped on after a brief discussion on the aphorism "the French work to live and Americans live to work." Okay, so the aphorism is a bit strong, it is a generalization, a stereotype, these are all decent arguments. But instead, my offended classmates said,

"Americans didn't choose to have a 40 hour work week!"

"Americans work harder to have nicer things!"

"There is more of a competitive spirit in America!"

Granted that these are all true statements, they are in no way arguments against the aphorism. It is you being stubborn and not wanting to admit that we are materialistic, stressed out, and over-worked.

Classes I've dropped

I was also enrolled in a course called, "The Short Story". I signed up for this class by mistake. I meant to sign up for American Lit from 1880. I realized this as the professor had us line up at the front of the class for the syllabus, calling us his "little ducklings", then telling us that we were "like the troops", and finally, finding the poor girl with the biggest tits and blatantly hitting on her.

This is where I decided that I could not stay. I almost made a valiant dash out of the door when he said, "If ya gotta go to the toliet, just DO IT."

I have never had a professor so sexist, crude, sarcastic, offensive, and ANNOYING.

About 15 minutes into the class, after he directed one of his rude comments my way and laid down on his desk, I left. I have never walked out of a class before. I made a beeline for the library and swapped The Short Story for American Lit, which I dropped shortly thereafter upon learning that the first novel to be read was Huck Finn.

Now here is when my world is turned upside down: I learn from UCONN that I have already finished my degree and I have no need to take any more courses. All of my credits transferred over from Paris. The secretary at the Registrar actually asked me if I was graduating RIGHT NOW. I didn't know what to say, I mean yes of course, wait no I am here anyways, my lease, my time, my nerves...

So far I've been franker than ever and anti-social. Was it living in a city? Or the famous French hospitality? Did I grow up? Or did I grow a sort of shell? It's only been a week since I've been back and I've already decided that there are several people who are just not worth my time. And for the first time in my life, I go with my gut instinct and I choose spending time alone over chugging beer in order to feel more comfortable. 

Not to mention the breaking of my heart when I left Monsieur Ponpon at the Charles de Gaulle, one week ago to this very hour.

Next entry will be more cheerful, I promise. I have third Thursday to look forward too =) and a SOBER weekend in New Hampshire with two blondes.

xo

julie

un petit week end

So, in reference to my all things petits, I would like to address a certain social phenomenon that happens each Friday in Paris (aside from in August when they migrate South).

"Petit Week End"

I was first introduced to this concept when I started work as a fille au pair for a Parsian family in September 2010. Whether rain or snow or sick children, the family would stuff their Peugot full of bedsheets every Friday and drive 2 hours (depending on the amount of other Parisians frantically leaving the city for the week-end) to their country cottage to spend 2 days à la campagne. A part of my indentured servitude was to accompany them every other week-end and amuse the children while the parents slept and/or read magazines.

Safe to say I did not fully profit from these particular petits week ends as I spent my time chasing after small children, cooking, cleaning and, on my time off, trying to convince myself that their friend's were not complete assholes.

Contrarily, as my relationship with my host family took a downwards spiral, I began to grow exponentially closer to Julien and his family. Although I could not understand much of the conversation going on around me at first, I had a much warmer and positive feeling when I was with them.

I was invited me to the family's countryside home for Halloween, Christmas, and two weekends this summer. This is where I experienced a real weekend  à la campagne.

This place is my eutopia. I have been horseback riding and biking through the windy roads. I've been swimming in a river and I even braved a rope swing for the first time in my life (took A LOT of coaxing). I've watched shooting stars, celebrated Christmas, drank too much rose, and stayed in bed until 2pm. I saw fireworks in the charming Chablis. I toured castles and strolled through royal gardens. The comparison between the country's capital and the countryside is enormous, the dialect, the dress, the decor... and the air quality.

A normal day in the countryside looks a bit like this:

2PM get dressed and eat lunch

3PM nap

4PM fun activity (i.e. horseback riding, various light sports, swimming, making cakes)

7PM apero

9PM dinner

11PM drunken board games

Safe to say, I think that I have finally understood the point of these seemingly rushed countryside weekends. Even Parisian's know deep down inside that Paris tends to be a bit suffocating at times. 

Check out my reviews on the most Hipster bars in the world coming up soon :)

xo July

how to say Tweezers in German

August 1 - August 4

some local shopping

Last Wednesday I squeezed into a van with six other passengers and traveled 5 or so hours from Paris to Cologne. This was my first time using co-voiturage, a French website in which you can book a seat in someones car who happens to be going the same place as you. I was the last person to show up at the Treffpunkt (translation: meeting place), so I found myself in the middle, knee to knee with a very pretty blonde girl and a boy with impossibly tight pants. I had trouble breathing and my the seat belt strapped across my hips was not very reassuring. In America, we would say that I was "riding bitch". A husband and wife who spent the majority of the ride bickering about money in a mixture of French and German sat in the front seats. In the back seats were a young boy and a teenage girl, presumably their children.

We arrived in Belgium when my phone told me "emergency use only". Although so far the trip had been a bit awkward, I mustered up the courage to ask the pretty blonde if she could or was willing to help me in some way. Luckily, she could not only speak impeccable French but also had a German phone. After I broke the ice, we chatted a bit. I was enthralled to find out that she also practices the art of vegetarianism. She was happy to teach me a few useful phrases in German like, ist das vegetarische and fleisch (translation: is that vegetarian? and meat). She even went as far to help me buy the right train tickets and show me how to take the S-bahn to the suburbs upon our arrival.

So, I took the S-Bahn into the Northeastern suburbs and met my host outside of the train station. First impression... ...very tall and very handsome. Piercings, accent, shy...and also a vegetarian. Could this be true? Had I somehow stumbled upon a land of Grass Eaters? He brought me to his apartment and introduced me to his roommate, whom I thought was named Josh but really was named something completely different. The two were extremely welcoming. They gave me local beer and played music and we exchanged stories about our travels and cultures.

One of the first questions I asked was whether they preferred Dusseldorf or Cologne. The response was a sardonic laugh and also a informing anecdote, recalling a stubborn rivalry between the two. Apparently the people of the neighboring towns do not take kindly to one another. It is a given fact that you do not drink the beer from Dusseldorf while in Cologne and vice versa. In Dusseldorf you drink Altbier, which means old beer, while in Cologne you drink Kölsch, which as legend has it can only be called so if brewed in a building from which you can see the cathedral:

Which is, by the way, breath-taking.

After sleeping in a large pile of pillows, I was awakened by my new vegetarian friend and offered peanut butter for breakfast. This compulsive trip to Germany was getting better by the hour. Vegetarians, guitars, good beer, peanut butter...remind me why I live in Paris? Anways, after a relaxing morning, I left for Cologne and barely made the train, thanks to a really nice local who held the door open as I ran like a imbecile from one platform to another. At this point I was already captivated by the people, the ambiance and the beer, and I hadn't even seen the Royal Jewels yet.

So I spent my afternoon marveling over German lapidary arts and German doors. The latter are notably air-tight and fabricated with an intent to close off completely one room from another. For example, each bathroom has one heavy door to open in order to get into the "washroom" and following the first door, an equally thick doors to get to the toilet. These large doors were ubiquitous; it was even necessary in the museums to open up a door in order to go from one room to the next. The intimidating doors marked in German added a shot of suspense to my afternoon. I was hesitant to open them and felt uncomfortable when they clicked shut behind me.

I figured out how to use the metro system to get back to the suburbs. Doing so was very gratifying as I speak no German and am not exactly what you would call orientated.... Upon leaving the subway, I was helped by two or three locals in finding my hosts apartment. I had a crudely drawn map and a confused look on my face, which may have evoked pity or perhaps the locals are just really friendly. I had two people approach me and ask me if I needed help (one of which did not speak English so was not very successful). I said goodbye to my lovely hosts and, I'm not entirely sure how we managed, but I met a friend on a random train platform (number 10) back in Cologne.

The locals applauded us as we drank a scorpion bowl in celebration of the fact that we found each other in a random city in Europe. We were next to the Rhine river, which was lovely. We made the first train to Dusseldorf. I blame the scorpion bowl or perhaps our inefficiency for missing the last train back to his hotel. Some complaining, beers, and an expensive taxi ride later we finally arrived at the hotel and asked for the key, which was attached to a 5lb weight. After going through some more very firmly closed doors, we made it to the room where he told me that I shouldn't be playing my uke at this hour (I'm pretty sure it was around 3am at this point) and we fell asleep in his teeny tiny twin sized bed. 

Since he had to work the next morning, I profited from the free tea downstairs, took a long nap, and made my way into the adjacent village, Hilden.

Which was adorable.

Although I had planned to go see Dusseldorf, I couldn't bring myself to leave this little village. Instead, I saw a German wedding. I also watched a one-manned band play 90s music in the town square, spoke with a lovely woman about skin care, flirted with a blonde waitress and ate what was incontestably the best slice of cake ever made.

I eventually found a small cafe, which doubled as an ice cream shop. At the cafe I browsed an extensive menu of ice cream sundaes. There was a large section devoted to "spaghetti ice cream" which was ice cream sundaes that looked like spaghetti dishes. There was ice cream pizza, ice cream lasagna, ice cream risotto, etc. etc. Afterwards I learned the word Pinzette (which sounds like "pinch it" and means tweezers!) and I saw a very large pair of jeans.

Which I decided are a direct result of the ice cream consumption.

After meeting up with my friend, we decided to have dinner in Cologne. Afterwards we messed up some more train schedules and in a desperate attempt to buy beer, ran to a grocery store with our host, who was kind enough to once again let me sleep on his couch. In fact my host had already left for Spain and it was his roommate, who I now know is not named Josh, who let us stay. Although my weary traveler friend and I were exhausted, we stayed up discussing politics and education with two very interesting characters. We also played one of my favorite games, set. Around 1 or 2 in the morning another drunken roommate came home. My friend and I ended up sleeping about 45 minutes (I threw in the towel a bit before him) and ran to the train station somewhere in between 5:58 and 6:04 in the morning. To my amazement...

WE DIDN'T MISS THE TRAIN.

Although I was rather looking forward to sleeping in the car ride to Paris, the driver was set on chatting about politics and education and world hunger. In French. My comrade, on the other hand, slept like a baby in the backseat, ignorant to the depth and complexity of the 5 hour long conversation that I was keeping up, like a real champion. 

And so, my friend and I arrived in Paris around noon on Saturday, August 4th. We were beaten, had stomach aches from no sleep and too much Ouzo, and still had about 45 minutes of metro to take in order to get back to my apartment. Although my little adventure does not stop here, this post does.

to be continued....

Biergarten

The Other Side of Paris

What comes to mind when you are asked to conjure up an image of Paris?

I don't blame you for thinking of the Eiffel Tour, beautiful people, high fashion, delicious food, or the Louvre.

Because its true! Paris is teeming with boulangeries, museums, monuments, cafes.

And of course, Romance.

But this is not all that Paris has to offer.

I stumbled upon what I would like to call the "Other Side" of Paris while strolling along La Petite Ceinture. No mouth-watering pastries in sight, no high fashion here.

 Project PC19: Modern-day RagPickers

The ancient practice of "Ragpickers" has began to see a come-back in certain neighborhoods of Paris. At the end of my stroll down La Petite Ceinture, I had unknowingly trespassed on the stomping grounds of the not-so-professional Trash Collectors of Paris. The street art was jaw-dropping and the seemingly endless piles of scrap metal, old clothing, shoes, and the abandoned baby carriage rendered me speechless. There were buckets to catch the water from the leaks, mattresses, wigs,and lots of "human waste".

After some careful research, I learned that this underground association has a name: Project PC19. The goal: to bring back an extinct profession which in English we could lovingly call "Ragpicking" or "Dumpster Diving". 

Before the invention of poubelles in 1883, the Ragpicker a "petit métier" that would be eventually be replaced with the modern-day "garbage man". In the 19th century, the Ragpicker wandered the streets before daybreak, digging through the piles of trash thrown out by the bourgeoises. This self-made profession was integral to keeping the streets of Paris clean (although, the streets were still quite filthy after the Ragpickers made their rounds). The Ragpickers carried laterns, hooks, and baskets, drank l'eau-de-vie by the liter, and were mostly marginalized yet sometimes reputable, as was the caracter Lutine, known in his neighborhood for his off-beat philosophical speeches. The Ragpickers existence was miserable yet fundamental, adjacent with the steady rise of consumerism.

The Recyclers of the 19th century, the Ragpickers came in waves. The first were the highest-ranking, the second the apprentices, and by the time the third wave came there was not much left of value in the piles of waste. 

After the invention of the trashcan, by Monsieur Eugene Poubelle, organized trash collection took the place of the Ragpickers. The profession eventually died out.

But what I discovered on my little trip down La Petite Ceinture was that, the Ragpickers have once again began to make a name for themselves in Paris. At the end of a trash and metal scrap littered tunnel, I found myself at what I presume now is a head-quarters of modern day Ragpickers (biffins in French).

Turns out that certain associations are beginning to recognize these Ragpickers as an essential part to modern day society. In reality, the Ragpickers are the vultures of humans, they find useful items in what others have already deemed as waste. The normally wasted energy is therefore reused. At the same time, they rid the streets of trash, as vultures pick away at carcasses and harvest wasted ATP.

In the 18th arrondissement, there exists a Carré des Biffins, a place where, if you are over the age of 18 and agree to only propose second-hand objects, you can trade or sell the treasures of the street. I have seen this market take place before but never thought it was an organized flea-market. It happens at the bottom of Montmartre, just a 10 minute walking distance from my little apartment.

In reality, not only does this profession help ameliorate the condition of the streets of a large city, but it also a great way to recycle. Recently, Paris has been doing its part to study this underground group of Recycling Avengers and pumping money into pushing organized gatherings.

And here I was, wandering around like a tourist (I'd like to consider myself an immigrant at this stage but can't help but marvel at the unknown) on what now seems to be a Ragpicker headquarters.

 Place of Resistance. On August 25th, 1944 the FFI and FTPF army captured a German train under this bridge after a hard fight

Next, you come across a garden. This is what really made me fall in love with the OtherSide of Paris. The fact that the overwhelming heaps of rejected material goods could be countered with some plants. I didn't notice the intentional vegetable garden at first, until my curious partner in crime called me over to look. This is when I realized that there was a compost pile, tomatoes, herbs, and flowers, everything meticulously labeled.

I was throughoutly impressed by the organisation and attention to detail. My personal favorite was the Wishing Tree:

From the parc buttes chaumont above, park go-ers could look down on the small community being built under the bridge. All in all, the idea is much more "green" to me than driving across the state of CT to the Trader Joe's to buy overpriced Tofu and Soymilk (made with GMO soy..). Giving back to the community by finding ways to use seemingly useless junk, composting, and planting flowers is a much more logical way to help preserve as much as we can.

So I say, Long Live the Ragpickers. Next time I pass by The Ragpicker Square (did I mention that it is just a street up from my apartment!?) I promise to not eschew the daunting piles of moldy books and moth-eaten jackets. I will find something beautiful and bring it back to Julien.

Until next time....

xo

july

la petite ceinture

"THE LITTLE BELT"

is an abandoned railway that runs through Paris. The last passengers rode on this little belt in 1934, but small portions of the railway continued transporting merchandise up until the 1990's. Since then, the railway has been occupied by squatters, artists, and curious Parisians.

On the metro ride I must admit, I was pretty excited to check out the old railway. I am keen on exploring abandoned transport systems. I was reminiscing my strolls down the High Line in New York City. As I surreptiously snuck through the heavy gate and began crunching glass under my sandals, I realized that the old metro line was more like my litte boat trip under Hartford on the Hog River... smelly, covered in garbage, and all-in-all a bit scary.



While the High Line is taken care of troop by environmentalist locals, has a nice terrace where you can drink a beer, and shows for the kiddies, the Petite Ceinture had a deserted, artsy, and towards the end of our walk, more of a homey feel. After perhaps too many trips to modern art museums I was not entirely sure which lumps of metal were strategically placed. There was broken glass everywhere and a few points where I was not sure I was going home in one piece.

Another difference between the High Line and the Petite Ceinture is that the French equivalent is technically not open to the public. Contrarily, I saw somewhere in between 20 and 30 others strolling along the ancient railroad tracks.

I found fun places to climb

Naturally, I spent most of my time hooping.

Somewhere in between la Villette and Buttes-Chaumont, I suddenly had a realization: I had already seen La Petite Ceinture all around Paris. The abandoned tracks run through Parc Montsouris, the small park across Cite Universitaire, where I frequented while living at cite U. There was also a strip in the North I had seen one night when I decided to take a left instead of a right, or something. This part of La Petite Ceinture was a bit more dodgy...

Oh and I also saw a very charming artist-type boy (may or may not have been coup de foudre) making some intense street art.

We could have kept going but we came upon a daunting tunnel. I may have done a lot of crazy things in my life but this was not going to be one of them.

 This tunnel made Hog River look like a cake-walk.

And here's the coolest part: a look into the Other Side of Paris. No chic shopping centers or romantic paintings found here. No high heels or designer bags. No fancy pastries or palaces or golden tipped gates.

Perhaps the cheapest place to live in Paris, still more interesting and ..more furnished than any place I have stayed thusfar. This little home under the bridge was really fantastic, so fantastic that you will have to wait until my next blog to see it.

Until then..

Happy Trails. xo

How to Explain "Hipster" to a Frenchman

It's harder than you think... After a few beers I'm almost positive I was describing my own mannerisms and lifestyle choices in painstaking detail, all while chain-smoking and wearing my Woody Allen glasses. oh la vache..

Enfin, bref.

Life has taken quite a drastic turn for la petite July - although I am now officially jobless, broke, and realizing that my friend count is 'dropping like flies' as they move out of Paris, I can't say that my life is quite so bleak as I have been spending most of my time as the French do - lounging in parks.

I'm also proud to say I have learned some new skills:

Slackline, printmaking... I also am looking into being a professional picnic-er.

I've also considered food critic. I mean what could be better than being payed to taste every croissant in Paris? It's hard work, but I think I'm up to the challenge. After my last weekend, spent in Prague I might opt for professional beer taster (can't stay in Paris for this one..) But on a much more serious note, my last weekend was worth writing home about. I think today we would say that it was worth blogging about. So here we go..

 Prague

The city of cheap beer, puzzling sculptures, and the slow and steady disneyfication of Communism

No but really, the price of beer is mindboggling. For just 15-60 crowns you have yourself a pint of Pilsner (THATS LESS THAN 1 EURO) The people are beautiful - they call themselves Bohemians. Also, I have never in my life seen so many people drinking beer at 9am. Drugs are legal and you can smoke in bars. The art is, like the architecture, juxtaposed, raw, and piercing. Although we stayed in a hotel, I recommend the hostels. They are much cheaper and packed with young travelers. On the whole, the city is extremely vegetarian-friendly, easy to navigate, and dotted with magnificent views.

We started off our trip quite well at a bar in the northern suburbs, where I taught my native Frenchie to say, "when in rome.."

There was even a sandbox a little ways off in the corner of the garden. and just look at that unfiltered beer of mine...makes my mouth water faster than you can say "pavlov's dogs"

We sat among locals and quenched our thirst with Czech micro-brews.. To say that I was impressed would not do this moment of my life justice. I tried to explain to fellow travel companion and love interest that this, a hearty and unfiltered beer in a large sunlit garden was something my life had been lacking since I had been living in France. He did not understand.

After running into a gorgeous Czech girl, we decided to follow her (a bit like lost puppies I might add) towards the castle.

We wandered around construction and my very first impression was that the entrance to the city (or the one that we found at least) was the castle's courtyard. Shortly thereafter, we found our hotel:

 

Nickel. and..and...

AND THE FIRST RESTO I FIND IS VEGETARIAN?!

I couldn't believe my eyes (or tastebuds). We sat outside and ate copious amounts of Indian food on metal plates. Chickpeas, broccoli soup, rice and spicy sauce.. and to wash it down I drank ginger tea, brewed with chunks of ginger root (almost as good as my vegan ginger lemon - did i mention it was vegan?!- muffin I picked up on rue Mouffetard last Wednesday..) 

We descended towards the Charles Bridge, the most impressive of the 11 bridges that cross the Vltava river. The bridge is swarming with tourists and gargoyles and once you get to the other end you are feel a bit lost being bombarded with gothic churches and narrow cobblestone roads. Make your way to the center and you will find the quirky astronomical clock - the oldest working in the world.

charles bridge at dusk

We met some friends, found a rocker bar and danced under a beautiful girl with no panties on. I tried to explain to my lovely friend that this, wonderful music and cheery drunks, was something my life had been lacking since I had living in France. Once again, he did not understand.

We danced to music I had not heard in YEARS (teenage dirtbag throwback?!) but somehow still remembered all of the lyrics. I made nice with a blonde German in the bathroom (perhaps a bit too tipsy after the German loss during the football match that night) and flirted with the bartenders. I also drank 4 pints of Pilsner for the price of 1 Stella in Paris...

The next morning, I lost my appetite when I innocently opened a small container that I had believed was jelly. It was in fact, not fruity conserves, but a funky pink substance that looked and smelled like catfood. Although this was not the best way to start off my day, I was quite pleased when we walked 20 meters away from the hotel and began to see shops filled with strange marionettes and early morning beer guzzlers seated on terraces that rival those of Paneme..

view from the top

Next, we explored the gardens, which were perfumed with lilac and roses and studded with sculptured and strategically placed public bathrooms. I began to wonder at this point if the abundance of WCs where due to beer consumption. We wandered through a photography exhibit which, by chance, featured a beevy of pictures taken in Paris in the 1970s. The description of the set compared Paris to birthing forceps, by far the best way to describe this city I have heard yet. We climbed the spiraul staircase in Prague Castle, played in the sprinklers, as we are childish and the day was beginning to get very hot. Oh and we also sampled Czech wine in a vineyard with a dazzling view.  Afterwards, we got caught in a few tourist traps (I do not recommend the Jewish museum, the Communist museum or anything of the sort!) and ended up in some sort of what we eventually decided was a relic of the communist reign, where we wandered into a f*cked up carnival, scared out of our wits. I had heard about a free music festival but all we found was carnies, a cheesy fountain spectacle complete with Meatloaf and ACDC, and more beer. Luckily we had some cherry tomatoes and cheese and also that every park in Prague seems to have an abundance of beer gardens.

On a quick side-note, my little French companion was very brave on our trip. He tried carrot cake for the first time (although he was not pleased). Later on, he tried his first martini and also his first bloody mary. He seemed to really take to the latter, which was understandable seeing how at Zanzi Bar they blend together fresh veggies to make the tomato juice..

The group of Spaniards to our right were very drunk. They were drinking toxic looking shots and hitting each other with blow-up bats, all while wearing glasses made out of glowsticks.

One more side-note...I must add here that I ate enough horseradish during this trip to spoil any prospectively romatic moment between me and my moustache man. Good thing he kept a steady buzz going.

We ended our Friday night in The Best Bar I Have Ever Frequented. I like to call it this (BB. HEF for short) as I am not able to correctly pronounce the name, which is Klub Ujezd. And yet, I had by this point learned a few words in Czech, which was much appreciated by the barmen. I really enjoyed listening and trying to speak Czech. It is much, much easier than French and it is a very fun language that is missing many vowels (wolf = vlk). Anyways, Ujezd had three floors of chaos, walls covered in monsters, a fun crowd, great music (le tigre!?) cheap beer... the people were beautiful and the tram stop was right outside.

Saturday we adventured across town in search of the Television Tour which is a virtually abandonned building that is literally crawling with large babies that do not have faces. We spent the afternoon checking out the cool architecture in the New Town all while trying to shake off the after effects of our trip to the GoYA museum. I think it was perhaps the bone-chillingly realistic Sadam Hussein floating in a dirty aquarium that put me a bit overboard. Or perhaps, a porno involving a Manet painting, Camembert cheese and carrots.

But really, I recommend this museum.. just don't follow any strange noises, skip the films, and don't go downstairs. On the contrary, make sure you stop by the vending machine to pick up some spray paint canisters.

It took us a bit of searching, but we eventually found the John Lennon wall and after a stroll in a park (which had more faceless baby statues and some plastic yellow penguins) we stumbled upon an Italian-style resto called The Alchemist which had a beautiful garden and a comical waitstaff.

After our dinner romantique, complete with fireworks and candles, Mr. Frenchie decided that we should go to the chapeau rouge. I had a good laugh at this terrible cliche and after drinking a few beers in eclectic, musty basement bars we found his bar. The decor was quite odd... lots of ninja babies, floating brains, dusty glass bottles, and a plastic dinosaur eating what looked to us like a piece of a baguette.... We danced a bit and left, got caught up in a bar crawl (I do not recommend, the clubs are shams). We were not impressed so we returned to chapeau rouge...

So we drank slivovice and some more beer, then descended into the dancerooms, which - to my EXTREME DELIGHT- featured local DJs spinning drum & bass. PHEW! Honestly, I was expecting anything better than what Paris has to offer where you descend down into the dungeon and fight a sweaty mass of tourists to buy 9 euro beers, just to listen to terrible pop/techno and dance like a fool under the revolving disco ball...

Later on we found a 24/7 burrito bar and saw some more locals sans culottes. Around 5am the sky broke and we welcomed the rain with great relief as we were quite sunburned from our day and sweaty from all the drum & bass.

Sunday we spent exploring Petrin Park. We climbed the "mini effiel tour" which we had laughed at all weekend for looking like the eiffel tour, only to find out that it was actually a mini-eiffel-tour.. My advice is to get lost in the labryinth of trails but to not peak into any caves you might find.

The highlight of the trip - renting a rowboat and trying to figure out how to not crash into the pedal boats.

All in all, I recommend Prague if you like being thrifty, consider yourself a bohemian, enjoy cheap beer, or really like climbing stairs. Do yourself a favor and skip the tourist traps - try not to take part in the disneyfication of communism. There is even a "communist bar" with terrible decor.. skip that, find some bars with no cover charge and don't trust any bar crawls. Guided tours are nerve wracking..instead, spend some time on a roof top terrace drinking unfiltered beer, explore the castle gardens, and don't miss out on a lounge session out on the river.

Oh and one more think, DON'T EAT THE PORK KNUCKLE. Although good food is abundant in Prague, the city, like many other tourist destinations, has it's far share of overpriced "local" dishes, which turn out to be the same quality as a fastfood resto. Although I eschew meat, my Frenchman doesn't. He was left less than satisified with 4 out of 5 of his carnivorous adventures in Czech cuisine. Even if you are blood-thirsty, I recommend the veggie restos, the burrito bar, and most of all the cheap beer.

He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time

o.w.